Chapter 18: Fire Drills and Fake Towels

Saturday, 3:07 PM.

Sebastian Mason was doing what most emotionally constipated CEOs did on a Saturday — reviewing quarterly forecasts in his minimalist penthouse.

Until…

BANG. BANG. BANG.

The door almost died from how violently someone knocked.

He frowned, checked his watch, and opened the door like a man preparing to deny entry to the apocalypse.

Instead — he found it.

Katherine Brown.

In nothing but a giant towel.

Wet hair, flushed cheeks, manic grin.

“Hi,” she chirped, as if she wasn't half-naked in the hallway.

Sebastian blinked. “Miss Brown.”

“I need a favor. And also a dryer.”

“…What?”

“My dryer exploded.”

“Exploded?”

“Well. It started making noises like a dying goat, then it started smoking. Which could mean demon possession or just cheap wiring. Either way, I panicked, grabbed the first towel I saw, and came here.”

“You… walked up six floors. In a towel.”

“Yes. I considered calling. But I had shampoo in my eyes and thought, ‘What would a sane person do?’”

He stared.

“And then I did the opposite,” she finished proudly.

Sebastian stepped aside like a man who knew he had already lost control of the situation.

She pranced in.

Left damp footprints on his hardwood floor.

Started dancing in the hallway to an imaginary song.

“I see you’ve redecorated since last time,” she said, glancing around. “It’s very… emotionally unavailable.”

“It’s the same.”

“Exactly.”

He sighed. “Do you want to use my dryer or stage a full personality invasion?”

“Yes.”

She beamed and walked off toward the laundry room like she owned the place.

He rubbed his face.

This woman was going to end him.

---

3:41 PM.

Her clothes spun peacefully in his dryer.

Meanwhile, she had commandeered his couch, his blanket, and half his snacks.

Sebastian stood by the kitchen island, sipping coffee and pretending he wasn’t watching the towel slip dangerously low every time she laughed.

“You know,” she said between mouthfuls of popcorn, “you’ve got excellent lighting in here. Like a brooding vampire meets Vogue.”

“I’ll pass that on to the architect.”

“Do. And also, your couch is a lie.”

“…A lie?”

“It looks all rigid and CEO, but it’s stupidly soft. I sat down and almost fell into a coma. I think your couch is gaslighting me.”

Sebastian chuckled.

Actually chuckled.

Which startled both of them.

“Did you just laugh?” she asked, eyes wide. “Is the ice melting?”

He gave her a look. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here I am. In your home. In a towel. Eating your snacks.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Sebastian,” she said, mock-serious. “Let the record show I’m not seducing you. This is strictly a laundry emergency.”

“Understood.”

They stared at each other.

Too long.

Her smile faltered. Just a little.

And the air thickened.

---

4:00 PM.

ALARM.

A loud, shrill, mind-melting sound.

“Is that—?” Katherine shot up.

Sebastian cursed.

Fire drill.

Mandatory. Unskippable. Pre-scheduled. And they both forgot.

She stared at him, wide-eyed. “I can’t go outside like this!”

He grabbed his coat. “Put this on.”

“It’s your custom trench coat! It's probably worth more than my rent!”

“Wear it or burn.”

She yelped and wrapped it around herself.

They ran down the stairs (elevators were off).

And of course—

Of course.

They burst out into the street just in time to be seen by half the building.

Katherine: in nothing but a CEO’s trench coat, bare legs, wet hair, still clutching popcorn.

Sebastian: in house slippers, clearly disheveled, chasing her down.

Someone took a picture.

“Kill me,” she whispered.

“No,” he muttered. “This is your fault.”

“My dryer exploded!”

“You’re barefoot!”

“I panicked!”

He yanked her closer. “We are never speaking of this again.”

“Too late. This is going on a T-shirt.”

And then—

He laughed again.

Really laughed.

And she looked at him like she’d just discovered a rare celestial event.

Their eyes locked.

And everything around them — alarms, neighbors, chaos — disappeared.

Just her.

Just him.

And a trench coat.

She whispered, “We’re a fire hazard.”

He whispered back, “You have no idea.”

---

4:39 PM.

Katherine’s apartment.

Sebastian sat on her couch with a glass of wine, legs crossed, shirt slightly wrinkled, hair disheveled from the chaos.

Katherine paced the room barefoot in his trench coat, waving her arms as she ranted to an invisible audience.

“Seriously! Who does a fire drill on a Saturday afternoon? Sadists. That’s who.”

Sebastian sipped. “It was scheduled. You just didn’t read the memo.”

“Oh, I read it,” she said, pointing with her wine. “I just forgot. In my defense, I had shampoo in my eyeballs and a cat outside my window screaming like it was auditioning for Les Mis.”

He bit back a laugh.

“And anyway,” she added, “I think I handled it with grace.”

“You ran past a lobby full of neighbors in a trench coat shouting ‘Don’t look at me, I’m emotionally fragile!’”

“It was a deflection tactic.”

He raised his glass. “Effective.”

She plopped down beside him on the couch with the most dramatic sigh in history, throwing her head back. The trench coat parted just slightly, revealing one smooth thigh.

Sebastian did not look.

Except he absolutely looked.

“God, I’m tired,” she groaned.

“I wonder why.”

She turned her head. “You know what we need?”

“Restraints?”

“Music!” she shouted, leaping up like a possessed jukebox.

She stumbled to her phone, queued up an upbeat jazz playlist, and began dancing like a gremlin on espresso — arms flailing, hip swaying, eyes closed.

Sebastian watched. Spellbound.

“You should join me,” she said, twirling dramatically, nearly knocking over her own plant.

“I don’t dance.”

“Everyone dances. You just need the right level of humiliation.”

“I’m good here.”

She stopped in front of him.

Leaning in. Smiling like a secret.

“Come on, Mason. You survived fire. Wine. Me in a towel. You can survive one dance.”

He stared at her.

Then — with a long exhale — stood up.

She gasped. “Oh my god. Are you actually—”

He grabbed her hand and spun her once, expertly, then pulled her in close — too close — and whispered:

“Now we’re even.”

She blinked.

Then laughed. “Didn’t know you had moves.”

He murmured near her ear, “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

And just like that — the room wasn’t funny anymore.

It was warm.

Quiet.

Intimate.

She looked up at him. “Sebastian…”

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear — gentle, deliberate.

“I should go,” he said.

“You should,” she replied.

Neither moved.

Until finally… he stepped back.

And she whispered, “You forgot your coat.”

He smirked.

“I’m counting on that.”

And left.

Leaving her standing barefoot, in his coat, heart hammering in her chest.

---

9:58 PM.

Katherine Brown stood in front of Sebastian Mason’s apartment door with a trench coat in one hand, a half-eaten cookie in the other, and exactly zero plans.

Which was, to be fair, her natural state of being.

She wore fuzzy socks, a t-shirt that read Caffeinate and Dominate, and pajama pants with tiny lightning bolts on them. None of which matched. But that wasn’t the point.

The point was: she couldn’t sleep. The coat was still on her chair. It smelled like him. And she was spiraling.

So obviously, the correct move was to return it.

At 10 PM.

Unannounced.

To the man she might — possibly — definitely — have feelings for.

She stared at the door.

Raised a fist.

Paused.

“This is dumb,” she muttered.

Then knocked anyway.

Once.

Twice.

Nothing.

She hesitated.

Then — as if drawn by fate, caffeine, and poor decision-making — she tried the handle.

It turned.

It. Turned.

“Oh no,” she whispered, stepping inside before she could reconsider.

The apartment was dark, save for the soft ambient light coming from the kitchen.

She peeked around.

Modern. Clean. Minimalist.

Unfairly masculine in a way that smelled like cedar and rain and just... Sebastian.

She set the coat down on a chair.

“Okay,” she whispered to herself. “Leave the coat. Exit the crime scene. Do not steal anything. Not even that really expensive-looking whiskey.”

A sound.

Water.

The shower.

She froze.

Her heart immediately attempted to leap out of her chest and file for independence.

“Kat,” she hissed to herself. “You are not going to—”

But her feet moved.

Past the kitchen.

Down the hall.

Until she stood at the slightly ajar bathroom door.

Steam spilled through the crack.

So did the sound of falling water.

And — because the universe had no chill — the soft scrape of a man running his hands through his hair.

A very naked man.

She knew she should turn around.

Run.

Evaporate.

But instead she—

Looked.

Just for a second.

And there he was.

Sebastian Mason.

Wet.

Back to her.

Muscles flexing as he braced one hand on the tile.

His head tilted back, water cascading down his neck, his spine, lower—

Katherine slapped a hand over her mouth to keep from gasping out loud.

She was going to die.

This was how she died.

Not from embarrassment.

From thirst.

She backed away like a cartoon character in a haunted house, mouthing I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry even though he couldn’t hear her.

She made it back to the living room.

Almost.

And then—

“Miss Brown?”

His voice.

Behind her.

She turned like a deer in headlights.

And nearly choked.

Because he was there.

Fresh from the shower.

Hair wet.

Towel slung low around his hips.

Water dripping down his chest in ways that should be illegal in several countries.

“I—” she squeaked. “I came to return your coat.”

He arched a brow. “At ten o’clock at night?”

“Don’t question my life choices.”

He looked down.

At her shirt.

Her pants.

Her sock with the hole in the toe.

Then back at her face.

And he smiled.

“Katherine.”

“What?”

“You saw me.”

She turned red. “No I didn’t!”

He stepped closer.

Her brain combusted.

She stepped back.

But the couch caught her knees.

She stumbled.

Fell.

He caught her.

One hand on her waist.

The other still holding the damn towel.

“You’re a menace,” he said.

“You’re a health hazard,” she shot back. “Who looks like that after a shower? That’s not even fair.”

He leaned in. “You looked.”

She looked at his mouth.

Big mistake.

“No comment,” she whispered.

He didn’t kiss her.

But he didn’t move away, either.

And neither did she.

They were both breathing a little too hard for people who weren’t doing anything.

Finally, she shoved a hand between them. “I need wine.”

He blinked.

She bolted for the kitchen.

He followed.

Still in a towel.

She grabbed two glasses.

He leaned on the counter.

She handed him one.

Their fingers touched.

Static. Everywhere.

“You always show up at men’s apartments in pajamas?” he asked.

“Only the emotionally unavailable ones.”

He gave her a look.

She sipped.

He sipped.

Then, she leaned her hip against the counter, cocked her head, and said, “Do you always walk around half-naked after 9 PM?”

He sipped again. “Only when I expect guests.”

She choked on her wine.

He handed her a napkin.

She took it, grumbling, “You’re not allowed to be funny and hot. Pick a struggle.”

His mouth twitched. “What if I pick you?”

Silence.

And then—

“I mean, good luck,” she said, recovering. “I come with noise. And snacks. And the occasional panic spiral.”

“Sounds perfect.”

Their eyes met again.

Longer this time.

Hotter.

He reached for the bottle to refill her glass.

She stopped him.

“Laid-back CEO Sebastian is really messing with my reality.”

He leaned closer. “You’re the only one who gets this version.”

She was going to combust.

“Okay,” she whispered, stepping back. “Okay, this is dangerous.”

“Why?”

“Because if you keep talking like that, I might kiss you.”

He said nothing.

Just stepped forward.

Until there was nothing between them.

His hand brushed a curl from her face.

His fingers grazed her jaw.

“Then kiss me.”

She blinked.

Paused.

Then—

“No.”

He stilled.

Her voice was breathy. “If I do it now, I won’t stop.”

He didn’t move. “And?”

“And I want to remember it.”

He tilted his head. “So do I.”

Another beat.

Then — chaotic as ever — she kissed his cheek.

Fast. Sweet.

Just a whisper of lips on skin.

Then she turned and ran toward the door.

“I’m gonna go now before I do something unwise!”

He called after her, “Too late!”

She giggled.

Opened the door.

Then peeked back in. “Also, keep your coat. I’m stealing it.”

Door slammed.

And Sebastian Mason stood there.

Wet hair. Bare chest. Towel. And one hell of a smile.

---